Usually, when I do a blog post, know what I'm going to write firsthand. Everything I post is just some asinine stream of consciousness that pops into my head when I finally look at all the pictures I have to choose from. It's more difficult for this post. I can't seem to flesh out everything going on in my head into something cohesive and my thoughts are all a jumble of incomprehensible bullshit. I'm a blank slate like the Bates Motel where I chose to take these photos with my friend, Jason. I'd chosen this location because it's ominously bleak, in a creepy way that I've been gravitating towards a lot lately. While I am the first to admit that I'm hands-down the most disorganized and messy person on the entire planet, and quite possibly the universe, I really find comfort in sterile emptiness. I guess, I'm looking for comfort, now more than ever. Comfort is a warm blanket and fuzzy socks. Comfort is dirty and beat up Doc Martens that make me feel like I'm back in High School hanging out at a skate park on frosty mornings before school. Comfort is a shiny drawstring skirt. Lately, I've been going to my closet and finding myself asking: what's the point? I think about blogging and I'm overwhelmingly apathetic. Over the summer, I spent two months assisting refugees from Yemen seeking to come to the United States. Up until that time, I'd never come face-to-face with my own privilege so bluntly and it really put my life into perspective. Even when I feel like everything is falling apart, I have abundance of things to be thankful for. My comfort is a luxury. These dirty shoes are a luxury. The freedom to walk up and down my old neighborhood and take pictures with my best friend is a glorious luxury--one that I often take for granted. My ability to sit here and type out all these things is a luxury. The thing about recognizing privilege is that it's hard to come to terms with having power while feeling unable to do anything about the system that has built it. I spent two months helping people with all of their belongings packed into one suitcase, while I, in some blatant irony, could barely fit all of my shoes in one bag while I travelled. Privilege is hard. Not having it, can be the difference between life and death, having it forces you to reevaluate the foundation of your life. That's why I'm mostly a blank slate. Particularly after the Paris attacks, when the dark corners of the internet rushed to condemn refugees who were fleeing this violence without sympathy, I looked over what I valued: art, clothing, music. And thought very hard: what's the point? How do I justify my love of these things, while the world keeps spinning into a complete disarray? What exactly is the cost of my comfort? What exactly is the price of my love?
I got home Saturday after a day of going to the Flea Market, Shopping, Having Drinks, wanting nothing more to crank up the heat, watch some TV and go to sleep. I checked my phone and I got a What'sApp message from a fourteen year old boy from one of the refugee families I'd helped with whom I still keep in contact with because he reminded me so much of my little sister, I wanted to follow his progress as he adjusted to school and life over here. He was worried about the Paris attacks. "Kiani, my friend, what does this all mean for me when I go to school tomorrow?"
I don't have any answers jut yet, but it doesn't stop me from searching.